“So it’s all settled. We know what the head in the center of the sink is.”
“We *do*?” spoke Wheeler, scratching her still beret topped head and trying to look innocent. At least she’d taken the key out of her mouth and dropped it in to be disposed of. *Tried* (damn chain).
“Where’s Baker?” Newt looked all around, as if the true owner of this blog and attached photo-novels, heading toward 34 in number, would manifest from a purple or raspberry tinted corner or wall.
“He needs to be in on this yarn, this story,” agreed Wheeler, also looking around the swamp shack but expecting less. The Prime Minister, the only one who can save the plot, the key. And it seems that he already did. Thanks to the levels, the nodal points. Now we can enter Pipersville unencumbered, he might utter if he were here. But is it really about Pipersville, a Maebaelia location famous for its sinkhole not thought about in a while? We have to think like we’re playing 3 dimensional chess. A bit like Spock. We have to get smarter, or at least more awake.
Pipersville obviously relates to pipes. The key should have passed through, Wheeler realizes, gone down. Yet it stayed at the top — caught. The key to the box that is a house, perhaps this shack itself, inner absorbing outer, passing through each other again and again ad infinitum. We should never have opened it, Wheeler understood for not the first time. Pictures. Occident separated from Orient. East over here, west over there, hemispheres apart.
Inner and outer, inner and outer…
Maybe only Nautilus can save us after all.
“See what we did, Keith B.? I *told* you we couldn’t avoid Horns.”
Beyond the resourcefulness of its porcine citizens, there wasn’t much to recommend the small mining town of Rumpus Ridge. But even in such a hardscrabble place, they had created something they could be proud of: over the years they had collected the biggest ball of string in the world. Folks came from miles around to see it. But one night, a flood carries their prized string away and washes it ashore near the town of Cornwall. Rather than return it, the Cornwallians decide to keep the string for themselves.
“Go ahead and take off your head and roll it into the center of the sink. That way you’ll be free of it. You can enter Pipersville unencumbered.”
“Of what?” Hucka Doobie speaks behind me in the void. “Yarns?”
Newt brought Jane Space over to Ontario or thereabouts (it was Tonar) to interview her for an acting position, similarly colored couch *acting* as an attractor. Turns out the couch would have been a better choice. Jane was simply too spacey to reply to much of what Newt was asking. “What did you say?” she repeated for the umteenth time when he probed further into her past for needed experience and references. Soo many memories. Galaxy memories, the deepest and most unfathomable kind. She’d have to keep thinking to assess them all but the pit was bottomless, an Abyss in other words. She’d need TILE to escape it all but that was still in the future a bit, perhaps 7 days or weeks or years. Jane Space knew that the universe had corners and that was about it. Muff-Birmingham in one, the fabled 1/2 desert 1/2 jungle realm where she spent some of her formative years — forming. She recalls her pregnant mother in the spaciness. “There — that was me.” “I’m sorry, what?” came Newt’s reply, already given up on her and thinking about the next potential character-actor he could interview.
Wait… the next one was pregnant as well! Okay, okay, I think through him. Synchronicity, right. “Tell me, Jane — Jane, are you there, are you with me?” Jane sleepily answered affirmatively. “Tell me about your mother.”
“Okay, so is this her?” he then asked after the teleport invite was accepted and bits actor Alessia appeared on the couch between them, needed google eyes in place since she said none of her clothes fit now due to the weight gain. A similarly eye sized blue ball also appeared and Jane knew. Daddy.
Hucka Doobie looks up into the Blue Feather Cube and imagines seeing Mr. Tom “Spilly” Bean emerge from the center of a triangle of 3 white stars, falling or perhaps even plummeting to Earth in a beam of white. Must be white.
Now to bring him actually to life.
She recalls the day she gave up her blackness, all ears now. In the opposite direction: red. She became the Controller after that, some say Morgan the Hagg returned from a watery grave, even. She picked up the phone. She gave him a call. Pepi “Can” Kolya was no more in her life. Until now, which was actually then.
“Herbert, it’s me,” she remembered saying into the screen, waiting with baited breath for a reply. Was that even his correct name?
“Herbert. I mean, *Newt* (sigh). Can I take off the ears now?”
“Not yet, babydoll.” He reaches over.
He made sure he was wearing the right colors.
We are here.
“I am looking for my red and green umbrella,” he spoke as clearly as possible through the rusty metal window.
Umbrellas, Alysha thought. But: close enough! “Come on in.” (creaaakk)
*There* you ares, he thought, spying them when entering.
Oh dear. What’s this?
“No more war. No more war! Stop *NOW*.”
“What are you *doing*. You’re going to *KILL YOURSELVES* ahhhhggg!”
“Move along. Nothing to see here. Move along.” (kkaaaerc)
“Now you know,” she said, still inside. “It’s all about Castor.”
How could he live with this?
“We have to get rid of your kind to make room for the ships.”
“We’ll give you a proper burial spot.”
“Query?” Rock would have raised a hand to ask an important question in his mind if he had any. But [Paper] already knew the answer.
“Quarry,” was his presumed corrective response. Stupid Rocks, he thought inwardly. We should cover them quickly to halt the dense talk.
Scissors then cut in, the hopeful champion of Rock and defender to the grave. But he would only beat her to a pulp when freed from his cage in the interrogation room, continuing the circle ad nauseam.
On her break, she liked to come to this park in the middle of it all to read her latest red book, this Lorsters Worst lady of the night. No sex in the book, since she needed to get away from all that which surrounded her like stardust glitter. Here: good solid plants. Earth. Grounded, she was. But break’s about over and the man with the big blue RAM truck with the souped up engine she didn’t quite understand the workings of had just killed his current adversary, the one who kidnapped his Damsel in Distress who was the same as his wife. These were no swingers. Really. That phony lifestyle got them in trouble but there was no sex involved in their interactions with the Charlotte club. Why would he allow that? she thinks for the character, the retired policeman who was now a private dick. That would be his, ahem, *unit* thinking for him, which needed to remain private.
I think back to when I met the guy, in a Cassandra City establishment called Big Dick’s Halfway Inn.
He sat in relative darkness in the corner of the lobby, waiting for me it seemed. Probably was. I was an older man at the time, which means the same age as currently down to the month, day, minute. I asked him if he was the name on the establishment. He scooted forward, removed his crossed hands and revealed himself, said he was that in the flesh. I turned away, having seen enough. Biff Carter was his name. I remember that clearly. I also recall the hotel was full that evening, and I ended up sleeping in the chair opposite him in the lobby. He removed himself sometime — I don’t recollect when. Gabby (clerk) returned about midnight from his looong long lunch break, as he called it (another break!), woke me up, and after gabbing quite a bit about unrelated topics said I couldn’t stay here. Then he recognized me from the band — we were playing at Shenanigans at the time — and changed his mind, said it was okay instead. He later wrote me, after I had acquired much greater fame and also fortune, that he regretted that night with all his soul. Should have kicked someone out and given you their room, he said, but still didn’t say who.
Actually, now I’m recalling an earlier incarnation, involving another red door ta boot. Wendell “Biff” Carter yes. Just retired from the police force, check (after the Oakley Annie debacle: see case-file 37-QZ). Returned to the force briefly when former fellow cop Philburt got sick on pill, but the debacle that caused him trouble in the first place resurfaced in an unexpected guise (Orkley Andy: see follow-up case-file 38-AP). It was as if he was circling back on himself in an endless loop. He needed to break out. Buying half of a small hotel in the Queen City of the South seemed a recipe for success. But then came the swingers.
Could have been recently deceased Jer Ronamy from Starfish Lake Gabby wanted to kick out but I’m not entirely sure. Have to check the old hotel registers sometime if possible.
(to be continued)